Nevertheless, she returned Reuben’s infectious grin with a cool stare; and when the bartender brought him a congratulatory beer, she ordered a prim lemonade.
She couldn’t remain stiff forever, though, and her reserve softened when he showed her his winnings. When he offered her half, it melted away completely.
“What now?” she asked, fanning out her four crisp fifties, tapping the edges into neat, symmetrical alignment.
He signaled to a girl selling cigars and cigarettes down at the other end of the bar. “Poker’s my game, Grace. What we want is something big.”
“Here?”
He shook his head. “I’ll take half a dozen of those,” he said to the cigarette girl, pointing to an open box of cheroots. He told her she was pretty, made her blush with his killer smile, and sent her on her way with a ridiculously large tip.
Grace snickered, stirring more sugar into her lemonade.
“What’s funny?”
“You are, Jones.”
He didn’t ask why; his self-conscious grin said he already knew. He lit a thin cigar with a bar match and stuck it between his teeth, one eye squinted against the smoke. He looked like a satisfied pirate. “Want one?” he asked, as if suddenly remembering his manners.
“A cigar? No, thanks.”
“You don’t smoke? Too bad. I had a kibitzing partner once who smoked great big stogies. He’d blow two smoke rings if a guy had a pair”—he demonstrated with two thick, perfect hoops of smoke—“three for three of a kind”—he blew three—“four for four of a kind”—four. “And furious puffing”—his head disappeared in a cloud of smoke—“for a flush.”
Grace made the mistake of taking a sip of lemonade just before he demonstrated the signal for a flush. A helpless burst of laughter caused some of it to go down the wrong pipe, and the rest to explode from her mouth in a fine spray, wetting Reuben’s shirtfront.
He patted her between the shoulder blades, chuckling with delight.
When the coughing fit ended and she finished drying her eyes, she returned to the question at hand. “Why don’t you want to gamble here? I thought you said the play was square.” She glanced around the big, busy room, alive with the hum of male voices and the clink of money.
Reuben followed her gaze through the long mirror behind the bar. “Maybe it’s too square.”
She gave him a long, speculative appraisal through her lashes, which he returned with innocent, open-faced interest. They were both leaning on the bar on their crossed forearms. She moved closer; he followed suit. “Jones,” she opened.
“Here.”
“You’ve got good hands.”
He looked down at his left one and wriggled his fingers. “Nice of you to say so.”
“How’s your nerve?”
Something danced deep in the light brown of his irises. The suave planes of his face sharpened subtly. “What makes you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about a little brace game I once had occasion to observe. You wouldn’t happen to be any good at seven-card stud, would you?”
His slow smile caused a curious fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Honey, I’m the best you ever saw.”
“That’s good,” she said, trying to make her voice crisp. “But for this particular game we’ll need something besides skill. Something extra. We’ll need a cold deck.”
His smile turned positively diabolical. He tossed back the tail of his frock coat, reached into his back pocket, and removed a plain deck of cards. Commonplace blue-speckled backs, as ordinary as water. “Razored aces,” he murmured, lips close to her ear, voice intimate as a lover’s. “A thirty-second of an inch. If you can pick ’em out, Grace, I’ll give you everything I own.”
Her laugh sounded shaky. “No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it.” She wanted to move back, away from his disturbing nearness, but the details of the game she had in mind required confidentiality.
Because it was complicated, it took a long time to explain it. When she
She couldn’t remain stiff forever, though, and her reserve softened when he showed her his winnings. When he offered her half, it melted away completely.
“What now?” she asked, fanning out her four crisp fifties, tapping the edges into neat, symmetrical alignment.
He signaled to a girl selling cigars and cigarettes down at the other end of the bar. “Poker’s my game, Grace. What we want is something big.”
“Here?”
He shook his head. “I’ll take half a dozen of those,” he said to the cigarette girl, pointing to an open box of cheroots. He told her she was pretty, made her blush with his killer smile, and sent her on her way with a ridiculously large tip.
Grace snickered, stirring more sugar into her lemonade.
“What’s funny?”
“You are, Jones.”
He didn’t ask why; his self-conscious grin said he already knew. He lit a thin cigar with a bar match and stuck it between his teeth, one eye squinted against the smoke. He looked like a satisfied pirate. “Want one?” he asked, as if suddenly remembering his manners.
“A cigar? No, thanks.”
“You don’t smoke? Too bad. I had a kibitzing partner once who smoked great big stogies. He’d blow two smoke rings if a guy had a pair”—he demonstrated with two thick, perfect hoops of smoke—“three for three of a kind”—he blew three—“four for four of a kind”—four. “And furious puffing”—his head disappeared in a cloud of smoke—“for a flush.”
Grace made the mistake of taking a sip of lemonade just before he demonstrated the signal for a flush. A helpless burst of laughter caused some of it to go down the wrong pipe, and the rest to explode from her mouth in a fine spray, wetting Reuben’s shirtfront.
He patted her between the shoulder blades, chuckling with delight.
When the coughing fit ended and she finished drying her eyes, she returned to the question at hand. “Why don’t you want to gamble here? I thought you said the play was square.” She glanced around the big, busy room, alive with the hum of male voices and the clink of money.
Reuben followed her gaze through the long mirror behind the bar. “Maybe it’s too square.”
She gave him a long, speculative appraisal through her lashes, which he returned with innocent, open-faced interest. They were both leaning on the bar on their crossed forearms. She moved closer; he followed suit. “Jones,” she opened.
“Here.”
“You’ve got good hands.”
He looked down at his left one and wriggled his fingers. “Nice of you to say so.”
“How’s your nerve?”
Something danced deep in the light brown of his irises. The suave planes of his face sharpened subtly. “What makes you ask?”
“I’ve been thinking about a little brace game I once had occasion to observe. You wouldn’t happen to be any good at seven-card stud, would you?”
His slow smile caused a curious fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Honey, I’m the best you ever saw.”
“That’s good,” she said, trying to make her voice crisp. “But for this particular game we’ll need something besides skill. Something extra. We’ll need a cold deck.”
His smile turned positively diabolical. He tossed back the tail of his frock coat, reached into his back pocket, and removed a plain deck of cards. Commonplace blue-speckled backs, as ordinary as water. “Razored aces,” he murmured, lips close to her ear, voice intimate as a lover’s. “A thirty-second of an inch. If you can pick ’em out, Grace, I’ll give you everything I own.”
Her laugh sounded shaky. “No, thanks, I’ll take your word for it.” She wanted to move back, away from his disturbing nearness, but the details of the game she had in mind required confidentiality.
Because it was complicated, it took a long time to explain it. When she
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